


The Devil's Due

by daredevilmoon



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredevilmoon/pseuds/daredevilmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nothing, a great steady flow of the blackness of his senses creeping into his veins until all the world and Matt, too, had been blotted out but for the tattoo of his own heart.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Due

There was a pause in the fading steps, the comparative silence immediately filled by the speeding of an unsure heart; Matt ran his thumb and forefinger along one another, anxiety running through to their tips. A near-silent gasp in the corridor, a hitch of breath - the footsteps began again only to fade.  
  
Matt leaned further forward in his chair, each stitch in his side an instrument in an agonising symphony, blurring his hearing enough to silence his target. His hand came instinctively to the bandage at his side, pressing against it through his hoodie; he struggled his mind away from the pain, focusing on replacing the steady footsteps and the at-odds heartbeat.  
  
The front door to the building opened, closed - another pause. A disjointed sigh, sniff; then the dull thud of shoes against the cement; then, nothing. Nothing, a great steady flow of the blackness of his senses creeping into his veins until all the world and Matt, too, had been blotted out but for the tattoo of his own heart.  
  
The pulsing of his heart; then, everything. Everything, as the world outside burst into its natural cacophony. Unfocused as he was, the city hurt like it hadn’t since he was a kid. He jolted at the shock of unwelcome nostalgia before settling into an uneasily tense stillness beneath the weight of the world, the ungodly sound of it all claiming him as its own.  
  
Car horns tore along his skin, marring the places not yet scarred; laughter wrapped itself around each sinew; screams plucked stitches one by one. He gasped against the barrage, trying to focus on that gasp - on the beat of his heart suddenly frantic with panic, spiralling him back into the street.  
  
He couldn’t - crunch of a fender 3 blocks away, of a bone across the street, of toast across the hall. The sounds of everything began to run together, to turn the world in on itself with Matt at its core. He couldn’t have lost Foggy altogether, he - so many footsteps, so many, and the different gaits - artificial scents floating into a sickening amalgam just above the smells of skin - voices: accents, tones, timbres. Each separation of one from his senses left his mind farther from where he needed to be: in himself, in control.  
  
Control was what his solitude had come to mean lately, though that seemed to have been bled from him on that warehouse floor - he reeked of shimmering blood, the sudden realisation dropping an iron curtain between himself and stalagmite sounds erupting from the hum. He was nauseated from the smell, the taste of it lingering on the back of his tongue. It pressed into him like mail, weighing him down, down - back into a self he wished weren’t the case, that which had been forged in the past day. The day in which a part of him had died and the devil in him had been sent to Hell.


End file.
